Saving Kabul Corner (3 page)
Read Saving Kabul Corner Online
Authors: N. H. Senzai
“All that trouble for a goat?” said Ariana, her eyebrows arched.
“If the men had not been so hotheaded, the incident should have ended right there,” said Hava Bibi. “Bawer's daughter, Dilshad, was my good friend at school, and before the feud began, our mothers often visited each other, exchanging melons and pomegranates from their orchards,” she added with a melancholy look.
“So what happened?” Ariana asked with impatience.
“Yes, well, my father was known asâhow do you kids say in Americanââa real tough cookie.'”
Ariana giggled as her mother explained the saying to Laila and her mother.
“My father ruled the village with an iron fist, and after he took the stallion, things escalated. It was rumored that Bawer's eldest son burned down my father's apple orchard. Then my father retaliated by filling their well with sand. It went on like this for many years, leading eventually to my father shooting Bawer's son Tofan as he climbed over the mud boundary wall that separated our houses.”
“He shot him?” Ariana said in a horrified whisper.
“Yes.” Hava Bibi sighed, a look of disapproval on her elegant features. “It was stubbornness on both sides, really; Father spotted Tofan at the top of the wall and shouted to Bawer that if his son didn't get down, he would shoot. Bawer had told his son to climb the wall, so his
nang
was at stake. Tofan was an obedient Pukhtun son and would never question his father, so he stayed. Because Zia had given his word that he would shoot, he was stuck.”
“His word? Are you kidding?” mumbled Ariana.
Laila gave her an incredulous look. “Ariana, giving your word is a big deal to Pukhtuns. In
Pukhtunwali
you are judged by your words and actions.”
Ariana gave Laila a stony look. “I'm not stupid, okay?”
“Ariana,” said her mother with a note of warning in her voice.
As Laila shifted her gaze, Ariana couldn't help but think that the only time Laila talked to her was to show off and make her look like an idiot.
“Don't be silly, Ariana
jaan
,” said Hava Bibi. “You are not stupid. You just don't know about Afghan culture as much as Laila does. A Pukhtun man's worth is tied to his word. So my father, using a rusty old rifle left over by the British when they failed to conquer the Afghans, pulled the trigger.”
“Did he die?” asked Laila's mother in a soft whisper.
“Thankfully, he did not,” said Hava Bibi, a sad, wistful look on her face. “Tofan was hit in the leg and he fell. Dilshad and I stopped speaking after that, though I heard that Tofan went on to become a professor of literature at Kabul University.”
“It's kind of like the Hatfields and McCoys,” said Ariana, remembering what they'd learned in American history the year before.
“The who and who?” asked Hava Bibi.
“The Hatfields and McCoys were two families in West Virginia in the 1880s,” explained Ariana. “A Hatfield shot and killed a McCoy, which started a family feud over honor that went on for decades.”
“Yes, very similar,” said Hava Bibi, her lips pressed in disapproval. Reliving the past had gotten her visibly upset. “Do you see how a small thing such as an argument over a goat can lead to something so terrible? If my father and Bawer had just met and talked things through, the families would still be friends.”
“So how did it end?” asked Ariana.
“Fate had other plans,” said Hava Bibi. “The feud simmered on and off for many years until the Soviets bombed our village after they invaded Afghanistan in 1979. Then both families scattered. I fled with my brothers, cousins, husband, and sons to neighboring Pakistan.”
Ariana knew that her grandparents had eventually left Pakistan and ended up here, in Fremont, California, where many Afghans settled as refugees. Ariana's father, Jamil had been fourteen and Uncle Shams had been eleven when they'd arrived.
“Okay, kids, enough old stories,” interrupted Nasreen. “School starts tomorrow, and we've got to get the rest of your school supplies.”
Ariana reluctantly got up along with the others. While everyone else exited the living room, her mother pulled her aside.
“Ariana,” said her mother, her face stern. “You were very rude to Laila, and that is not acceptable. She's your cousin, and our guest. You must be nice to her and make her feel welcome.”
Reluctantly, Ariana nodded and trudged back to the garage to grab her school shopping list. The garage, her father's office, was overflowing with stuff related to the store. Cracking open the door, she glimpsed her father hunkered over his desk, poring over the store's ledgers and taking notes. Watching his worried face in the shadow cast by the lamp, Ariana felt her annoyance with Laila and her mother fizzle, replaced with a feeling of dread. Deep in her gut, she knew that the new store opening at the opposite end of the plaza was bad news.
B
ACK
STRAIGHT
, GAME FACE ON
, Ariana pushed through the double doors of Brookhaven Middle School. One step behind was Laila, dressed in jeans she'd ironed that morning at six a.m., and a long, turquoise
kameez
she'd worn when she'd first arrived in San Francisco. After getting ready, as Ariana had dragged herself out of bed, Laila had helped Hava Bibi make breakfast, gaining praise for flipping a perfect pancake. She'd even added mini chocolate chips for the twins, earning her a rare hug from Omar.
Pretending her cousin wasn't there, Ariana halted under the cheerful green and white banner welcoming everyone back to school.
Where's Mariam? I'm going to kill her if she's late
. They'd promised to meet in the lobby then check bulletin boards to see their homeroom assignment so they could officially begin the sixth grade together. Over the summer they'd attended middle school orientation and received a map of the school, along with instruction on what to expect this year.
“There are so many people,” whispered Laila, her face pale.
Ariana nodded, still irritated by Laila's kissing up to her annoying brothers. But her mother's voice reverberated in the back of her head.
Keep an eye on Laila. She's new, and I'm sure things will be a little scary for her.
“Yeah,” replied Ariana, feeling a little overwhelmed too. “There are more than six hundred students here.”
“Oh,” murmured Laila, rubbing her locket.
A stream of kids came bobbing through the main door, and Ariana began to wish she were back at Glenmoor Elementary, with its comforting yellow walls, folksy art hanging from the bulletin boards, the familiar teachers, and the cozy cafeteria that looked out onto the playground. Feeling anxious, she wiggled her toes in her new seamless stockings that her mother had bought from a special store on the Internet. To make the first day of school go by more easily, she'd also dressed in her most comfortable clothes. There was no way that she wanted to be noticed yanking at underwear that bunched up or a shirt seam that dug into her skin. When Ariana was six, Nasreen had taken her to the pediatrician, fed up with tantrums about clothes that didn't feel right, were too tight, or itched. Ariana had been diagnosed with a mild case of Sensory Processing Disorder; she tended to feel, smell, and hear things at a heightened level. Ariana wasn't too bothered by itâthat was just the way she was. But she knew her mother had been disappointed; Nasreen had loved buying her only daughter fancy outfits, adorned with bows, lace, and ruffles, and dressing her up. After the trip to the doctor, all that had ended.
“And there are so many . . . boys . . . ,” added Laila, her voice subdued.
Ariana blinked in surprise, realizing how weird that must have been for her, coming from an all-girls school. “Don't worry about them,” she said. “They're just . . . people. Sometimes kind of loud and gross, like my brothers, but they're okay.”
Laila nodded, edging closer as a backpack came flying past. Ariana combed through the sea of bodies and spotted a few familiar faces, including Selena Ramirez and George Kakopolis, who shared a friendly wave. It was a relief to see them, but it was still daunting to start out in an unfamiliar building with unknown kids and teachers.
“Hey, Ari!” came Mariam's melodious voice from across the hall. A good half a head shorter than everyone else, she made her way through the throng of bodies, wearing a bright pink top, white jeans, and a leather headband holding back long hair the color of dark honey. She moved through the hall, as comfortable as could be. For a moment Ariana felt jealous of her best friend's outgoing, can-do personality. Nothing ever seemed to faze her.
“Hey, Mariam,” said Ariana, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Hey to you, too,” said Mariam. “
Salaam,
Laila. How are you doing?”
Laila grimaced, her lips compressed.
“Don't worry,” said Mariam, giving Laila a hug. “I remember coming from Afghanistan and starting school for the first time. It was really scary, but it all turned out okay. We're here to help you. Right, Ari?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Ariana without much enthusiasm.
“This is a beautiful schoolâ,” said Laila, staring at the freshly painted white walls.
“It's okayâcould be better,” said Ariana, cutting her off. “The gym is kind of small, and the cafeteria doesn't have windows. I wish we had a bigger library and a pool.”
“Lycée Malalai, my old school, had bullet holes in the walls and half of it was demolished during the bombings,” said Laila.
Bullet holes?
Ariana blinked in surprise.
“Wow,” said Mariam. “That's awful.”
Ariana knew that the Taliban had stopped girls from going to school, but she thought things had gotten better since they'd been forced out. Then she remembered her father and Uncle Shams's conversation at the store.
The Taliban are gaining in strength . .Â
. Maybe having a small gym and library wasn't such a bad thing after all.
“Come on. We need to get our homeroom assignment,” said Mariam.
They wove their way through the press of bodies to the bulletin board outside the school office. A handful of teachers stood by to help. The girls pored over the first sheet, looking for their names. None were there, so they moved on to the next.
“Here I am,” squealed Mariam, pointing at the list for 6B.
“Let me see,” said Ariana, pushing Laila out of the way. She'd been in the same class with Mariam since the second grade, and they'd been praying that they'd end up in the same homeroom. After seeing Mariam's name in the first column, she kept reading, but there was no “Ariana Shinwari.” Halfway through the second row her hope started to fade. But there, at the end of the list, she caught the name Shinwari. But it wasn't her; it was Laila. Disappointment left a bitter taste in her mouth
. How can this happen?
“Hey, we're in the same homeroom,” said Mariam, grabbing a relieved-looking Laila's hand.
“I'm not here,” said Ariana with a strangled whisper.
“Don't worry,” said Mariam, looking hopeful. “I'm sure we'll have other classes together. Homeroom lasts only half an hour anyway.”
“Come along, guys,” said a tall, balding teacher in crisp khakis and a peach button-down shirt. “If you know your homeroom assignment, hurry along. The bell's going to ring any minute.”
“I guess we have to go,” said Mariam. “We'll see you later.” She grabbed Laila's hand, and they disappeared into the crush.
With a frustrated sigh Ariana checked the other lists and found that she was in 6D. Hitching up her backpack, she trudged to her assigned room. She made her way to the third row, in the middle of room, and sat down. It was the perfect spot to hear the teacher, but not so far in front that she'd get called on all the time.
“Hey, Ari,” said Selena, grabbing the desk next to her.
“Hey, how was your summer?” replied Ariana, relieved to see her.
“Pretty good. We went down to Bakersfield to spend a few weeks on my grandparents' almond farm. Man, it's
so
hot down there.”
As Ariana nodded, a tiny woman with bright red hair and glasses bounded inside. With a flourish she wrote her name on the blackboard. “Good morning. I'm Ms. Van Buren, and I'll be your homeroom teacher this year. I know a lot of you might be nervous, starting at a new school, seeing so many unÂfamiliar faces, but in homeroom our goal is to get to know one another better and prepare for a fantastic future in middle school. The first thing I'll do is take roll; so after I call your name, stand up, say something unique about yourself, and I'll give you your class schedule.”
Groans and eye rolling followed her announcement. No one wanted to stand up in class and actually say something. Ms. Van Buren ignored the lack of enthusiasm and pulled out a manila envelope. “Okay, here I go. Melanie Aleve,” she called out.